The Thorn Inside
by Gertrude-04
Summary: Seven years ago, Dean and Sam parted on less than friendly terms. Now they are reunited in a very unexpected way. Chapter five up!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This might be the longest piece I've ever written.

* * *

Sam is behind the wheel of his Ford Explorer, a bag of diapers in the passenger seat next to him, when his phone vibrates against his thigh. He sighs in frustration, turns down the music (AD/DC, Highway to Hell- a_ classic, _despite what his wife might think) and digs into the pocket of his jeans for the flip phone.

An unknown number is displayed across the screen, but Sam answers it anyway. In his line of work, most of the people he works with are unknown. That is, until he manages to make a contact out of them.

"Is this…Sammy?"

"It's Sam." He corrects the nickname automatically, without considering that no one has called him Sammy in at least seven years. He doesn't immediately realize that the professional quality feminine voice saying it is all wrong. He hears the papers rustling suspiciously in the background, but doesn't make the connection.

"Sorry. Sam. My name is Catherine Smith. I'm calling from Sacred Mary Hospital in Atlanta. We've got a John Doe in our emergency room. He was brought in with no id, he hasn't told us anything about himself, but your number was the last called on his cell phone."

Sam forces himself to not react, to not get his hopes up. "Can you describe him?" He's proud of the steady tone in which he speaks that gives nothing of his suddenly shaking hands away.

"He's late thirties, tanned with dark blond, military style hair. Hazel eyes, about six feet, maybe one hundred eighty pounds. Really handsome, but in sore need of an attitude adjustment. He was involved in a car accident late yesterday."

Sam doesn't hear the subtle dig against his brother. He's had roughly twenty-two years of people conflicting with his brother's abrasive personality, and he's long since learned to ignore such comments.

"What kind of car was he driving?"

He almost doesn't want to learn the answer. It would be too perfect, too much of a coincidence even for a Winchester that after three years of hiring private investigators to track his brother down, this is how he finds him. The steady tone is gone, and he's twenty-two and unsure all over again.

"Uh, let me see." She's quiet for a minute, the sounds of papers rustling and scratching pens is transmitted through the link. "Looks like a 65 Chevy Impala. Black."

Sam's whole upper body jerks, and the SUV swerves briefly into the opposite lane before he gets it under control. It can't be him.

Yeah, and denial is a river in Egypt.

It very well _could _be. The 65 and 67 versions of the Impala are similar enough that one who didn't know better might make the mistake of inverting the two. Sam's heart knocks heavily against his chest; he wonders if the woman on the other end of the line can hear it. "What are his injuries?"

"His left leg is broken; left wrist fractured in three places. His hands are cut up fairly badly, both required stitches to fix them up. A couple of bruised ribs, and a concussion. I know it seems bad, but on the whole, he's pretty lucky."

Even as he's telling himself that it might not happen, that it might not be Dean, he's promising the nurse that he'll be there within the hour, because as luck would have it he lives in a suburb on the outskirts of Atlanta. He tosses his cell phone on the backseat as he pulls a highly illegal u-turn, telling himself that he'll call Kellie once he reaches the point of no return. As soon as it's too late for her to convince him to turn around.

Sam digs a homemade disc out of the glove compartment, and pushes it into the CD player. The heavy metal sounds of Metallica's Black album fill the Explorer, and he imagines old vinyl seats cracking beneath his weight as he shifts.

He in fact makes it into the city a great deal faster than 'within the hour.' Reminiscing in the past has brought back his old, less-than-conservative-more-like-reckless driving style, when there was nobody waiting up for him, and everything he cared about in the entire world was sitting in the seat next to him. The tires squeal on the asphalt, the transmission jumps in response to his heavy foot on the gas, the steering wheel gives easily beneath his strong and capable grip.

By the time he reaches Sacred Mary, a wide smile is plastered across his face, and his hair is wild and wind blown. The good mood doesn't last, however, when he steps through the doors to the front entrance and remembers why he's here. _It might not be Dean, _he tells himself again, though at this point it's a losing battle. Sam knows the man the hospital called him about is in fact his brother; he knows it in that inexplicable way he's known few things in his life. It is Dean, and while that knowledge should bring with it some sense of relief, Sam feels only a strange dread. Of all the ways he imagined reuniting with his older brother, this is the second to last worst scenario. The first involves a cold slab, or a drawer in a small town morgue somewhere.

He approaches the front desk slowly, noting the woman behind the counter has a nametag reading, 'Kimberly' pinned to the top of her bright pink medical scrubs. Not the same woman that Sam spoke to, then.

He steps up to the counter with his hands pushed deeply into his pockets to disguise their shaking, and waits patiently for her to notice him. She does, looking up through strangely old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses to stare owlishly at him.

"Can I help you?" Her tone suggests that she's on the tail end of a very long shift, and couldn't care less if Sam was hunched over and bleeding from several dozen places. He tries a smile on her, the same one he hasn't used in at least seven years, what Dean had once dubbed his 'convincing smile.' It doesn't have an effect.

"Um, I got a call about forty minutes ago. There's a guy here with my number on his phone."

"Oh. Great." She sounds inordinately relieved, like she's been waiting all night to hear those words. Sam thinks on it for a minute, then decides that with his brother's propensity to piss off anyone who spends an extended period of time near him, it's entirely likely that she _has_ been waiting all night to hear those words.

"Fourth floor," she says, without checking the computer, or any of the seemingly random papers strewn about on the desktop before her. Sam thanks her quickly, then heads towards the bank of elevators at the far end of the hall. Kellie spent some time in this hospital a few years back; nothing serious, just a kidney stone, but it meant that Sam made enough trips between here and their home that he knows the route by heart.

He makes it to the fourth floor without incident, and even as he's wondering how he'll find Dean in this maze, the doors are opening and his concerns are rendered moot. He steps into the hallway, and winces at the sheer volume of the argument in progress.

"I'm telling you, it's the rules! You need a sponge bath!" A woman's voice, though the distinction is made not because of tone, or timber, but rather because Sam can't exactly picture a man trying convince someone to take a sponge bath.

"And I'm telling you, I don't give a fuck about the rules! You're not getting anywhere near me with that thing!"

And that voice is so familiar any doubts Sam might've cultivated during the elevator ride quickly vanish. His heart freezes in his chest, and though he has become quite used to his body in the fifteen years since he hit puberty, he finds himself stumbling and nearly falling on suddenly too-long legs.

"Your odour is becoming offensive to the other patients! You need a bath!"

Sam uses the shouting match as a compass, orientating himself with it as north and heading that way. His hands have begun to shake again, this time he crosses his arms tightly against his chest to hide the tremble.

"Oh, give me a break. I've only been here a day. I don't stink; you just want to get your warty hands on me!"

As he approaches the source, the volume decreases to a near tolerable level. He uses the averted gazes and embarrassed flushes of the hospital staff as a guide. Although Kellie stayed on a different floor, the architect clearly had enough sense of pattern to make all floors identical. Sam passes a waiting room with a poster of Winnie the Pooh and Tigger on the wall, and knows that there are eight more rooms on his right, nine more on his left, plus a nurse's station before the stairwell.

"Whether or not I will enjoy myself has nothing to do with it. Each patient gets a bath after his or her lunch, and being as you just ate, you now get a bath. I don't make the rules; I just enforce them."

Sam stops at the last door before the glowing emergency exit sign, and leans against the doorjamb. A curtain drawn around one of the two beds blocks his view inside the room, and he's suddenly unsure he wants to go through with it. Two years spent searching for his brother, and Sam is afraid to face him. He's afraid to see how the years have treated Dean, afraid to count how many scars are there now that weren't there before. He's afraid Dean might not want to see him.

"Well, I've always been the exception to the rule." And damn if Sam can't hear the smug smirk in his brother's voice. If the situation were different, he might feel bad for the nurse. Sam learned early on in life that no one, absolutely no one, could make Dean do something he doesn't want to do.

He takes a breath, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, and steps through the doorway. He sees the nurse standing over Dean before he sees Dean himself, and Sam can honestly say he doesn't blame his brother for not wanting her to touch him. She's Sam's height easily, but nearly twice as wide, with poorly dyed frizzy red hair and ill-fitting balloon print scrubs.

He takes a step further into the room, and though he has been expecting this moment since he arrived, he nevertheless finds himself speechless. Dean seems to be similarly affected when he turns his head to see Sam standing there; Dean's hazel eyes are as wide as dinner plates in his too pale face. He's reclined halfway to the horizontal on the narrow hospital bed; the leg encased to mid-thigh in fiberglass cast is propped up by a couple of pillows. Both hands are bandaged thickly in gauze and tape, the left wrist in another fiberglass cast that wraps around his thumb. His face is riddled with cuts and scrapes and bruises, and Sam wonders how bad the Impala must look if this is how Dean came out of it. The mint green of his hospital gown reacts with the dark bags under his eyes, making him seem older, and in great deal worse shape, than he must look naturally. Still, there are more lines around Dean's eyes than Sam remembers seeing.

"Sammy," Dean breathes, and he sounds genuinely surprised, like he didn't believe Sam would come, and didn't expect to see him. He tries to tighten his hands around the bed sheet draped over him, but winces with the resultant pain.

"Hi, Dean." Sam sounds just as insubstantial as Dean himself. His knees begin to tremble, and rather than embarrass himself thoroughly by collapsing to the tiled floor, he hooks his foot around a nearby chair and drags it over to Dean's bedside before dropping onto it. His hand comes up, wanting some contact with this man that a part of him believed he would never see again. He hovers for a moment, wondering where he can touch without causing pain. He settles for the upper arm, and squeezes gently. "How are you doing?"

Dean opens his mouth as if he's going to respond, but then his eyes narrow and his gaze shifts to the nurse still standing over his bed. "Can we have a minute please? We can pick this up later, can't we? I'm sure you have other patients to molest."

The nurse's features twist into a snarl Sam imagines serial killers wearing, but she turns and stalks away anyways. Dean watches her go, then smirks at Sam and looks away just as quickly.

"Can you believe her? Fucking crazy, like that chick from that Stephen King movie, you know, what's her name."

"Kathy Bates," Sam supplies, without commenting on how much better the book is, and how they don't really compare once you've read it.

"Yeah, that's the one. I swear she wants me. Always going on about changing my bandages, and those fucking sponge baths…like I need someone like her to-"

"Dean." Sam interrupts the rant with a gentle squeeze on his bicep. Dean turns reluctantly to meet his brother's gaze, before letting it drop back to his hands. "How are you?"

He lets out an explosive sigh, and manages not to wince when the movement pulls on fresh stitches and sore muscles. "I've been better. But, you know, it's nothing a little tequila and a few days in bed won't fix."

Sam eyes the cast suspiciously, and doesn't comment on how he thinks it might be a little more serious than just that. "What did the doctor say?"

"I don't listen to the doctors, Sammy. And you don't either. Remember that one that told you I only had a month to live? You sure proved him wrong, didn't you?"

As if he could ever forget. The sight of Dean in that hospital gown, nearly an identical shade to the one he'd worn years previous, had almost been enough to give Sam mental whiplash. Regardless of the direction of his thoughts, though, he's known his brother long enough to recognize an evasion tactic when he hears one.

"What did the doctor say, Dean?"

Dean sighs, looks towards the door like he thinks he can make a break for it. "You know how doctors are." He sighs again. "She said I'm lucky to be alive. If my luck continues, I'll walk with a limp rather than not walk at all."

"Jesus." Sam's hand slips from Dean's arm, and he falls back against the chair.

Dean smirks, but it lacks real emotion. His eyes look sad, too old for his face. "Yeah, tell me about it. Thirty fucking years of demon hunting, and it's a telephone pole that cripples me."

"Don't talk like that," Sam says, grabbing his brother's arm again. "You don't know that's how it's going to be. You've come back from pretty bad things before."

Dean's arm tenses beneath Sam's hand, and he's suddenly sure on the list of most wrong things to say at that moment, his little ditty would be number one.

"How would you fucking know that?" Dean's hazel eyes are narrowed into slits, making the glare he sent the nurse look like a gentle rebuke. His hands tighten into fists despite the stitches and Sam can see spots of blood blossoming on the bandages. "You weren't there. You think you can just swoop down after seven fucking years, and expect to reassure me? Fuck you, Sammy. I don't need this."

"Dean, I didn't mean to-"

"Nurse!" Dean's bellow is so loud Sam is sure he can hear the windows rattle in their frames. The hospital staff seems to be well versed in Dean's summoning, because a nurse appears in the doorway within seconds. She's not the same one as before, but the expression on her face suggests that they might share a viewpoint regarding Sam's only surviving family member.

"Yes, Mr. Ulrich?"

"Can you show my brother here to the door? We're done."

Sam stands, gripping the metal bed railing tightly in both hands. "Dean, don't do this. I want to help. You've gotta let me." He feels desperation bubbling up within him, making his motions jerky and quick, and tightening his voice despite his efforts to stay calm. He worries that if he leaves Dean this time, he will never see him again. "Please."

Dean meets his gaze, and for a minute, Sam thinks he might've changed his mind. But then his brother's lips are twisting into a sneer, and he shakes his head. "Same old Sammy. You don't have to save everyone, you know? I don't want your help. I don't need it. Now get the fuck out."

The petite nurse lays a hand on Sam's shoulder, and leads him out of the room. Sam feels like everything's falling away from him, like the one thing he's been waiting all this time to complete his life is just out of grasp and slipping farther away each second. He wants to add something, to come up with something that will change his brother's mind. But he knows that to push Dean will only lead to him closing himself off even further.

"I'm sure he didn't mean all that," the nurse says quietly. Her thumb is rubbing Sam's shoulder gently through the wool of his sweater. "We often see reactions like that from accident victims, and they always come around."

Sam can only shake his head. This woman is trying to reassure him, but she doesn't know anything about Dean. The cookie cutter condolence will not work on him. It doesn't change the anger and hurt Sam saw in his brother's eyes, or the guilt Sam feels nearly overcoming him, guilt that he left in the first place.

"You should hang around for a little while," she says, stopping him in the Winnie the Pooh waiting room. "Wait a little bit, and try again. I'm sure he'll calm down."

Sam wants to ask how the hell would she know that, after having knowing Dean for a little over twenty-four hours, but he knows she's only trying to help, and he doesn't want to hurt her. Instead he smiles softly, thanks her, and lowers himself into the hard plastic chair.

* * *

How dare he.

Dean is literally trembling with rage. His usual tactic to rid himself of that will no longer fly; there is nobody to pick a fight with, and he's pretty sure he'd be hard pressed to find a pool game in the hospital, even if he did manage to get out of bed.

So he lies in that goddamned hospital bed, fuming with indignation and fury, hands clenched into awkward fists despite the tearing pain he feels from ripping open stitches.

Dean doesn't even know how Sam found out he was here. He sure as hell didn't give anyone a name or number to contact, let alone permission to do so. And yet Sam shows up anyway, in that uncanny way he used to have of springing into action in the last possible second before Dean ends up flayed open or burned alive. Except this time the danger is all over, and Sam's still here. Still wants to help, pleading with that damned look in his eye, despite the fact that his assistance was neither asked for, nor expected. Of course, Sam wouldn't be Sam if he didn't stick his fucking nose in where it didn't belong.

And yet as angry as he is, there is a part of Dean that can't deny the swell of relief that rose up when he caught sight of Sam's face from around that mountain of a nurse. There's a part of him that wishes he could've told Sam exactly what he felt instead of hiding behind explosive anger. Seven years lost between them, and Dean couldn't tell his brother how relieved he was to see him well, how much pleasure it gave him to see the flash of a gold wedding band when Sam reached out to grab the bed rail. All he could say was he didn't need Sam's help, didn't want it, and though that may be true, it's not what Sam needed to here.

"Have you calmed down some, or should I come back with a couple of orderlies for body shields?"

Dean's fiery hazel gaze flickers to the open door, and he visibly calms himself. The only nurse he can stand in this place, the only one who doesn't make him feel like an invalid, is leaning against the doorjamb with her arms crossed against her chest, and he really doesn't want to alienate her too.

He sighs through his lips. "No, I'm all right. My brother, he just…he brings out the worst in me sometimes, you know?"

She nods, pushes away from the wall and moves closer. "That's family for you. Can't live with them, but why the hell would you want to live without them?"

Dean turns his head away, tucks his chin against his shoulder so she can't see the emotions playing openly across his face. "Yeah," he says thickly. "Something like that."

He takes a deep breath, brings himself back under control and turns to face his visitor. Her name is Mary, and hadn't that been the biggest coincidence Dean experienced in a long time? She's very pretty, he decided the first time he woke up to her face floating above his, but that's not the entire reason he likes her. She possesses a quiet confidence, not cocky like Dean himself, but more like certain of herself and her abilities. She remains to be the only member of the hospital personnel Dean can stand for extended periods of time.

She picks up Dean's right hand in her own, frowning and ticking at the spotting of blood on the bandages. "I do believe we told you not to use your hands. Maybe we should save you the trouble and hack them off right now? I'm sure there's someone in the hospital who could use a pair, and will actually listen to our instructions."

She peels off the tape, and begins unwinding the gauze to check the condition of the stitches.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Okay, consider me suitably chastised. I'm sorry, and it won't happen again."

"Damn right it won't," she says under her breath as she carefully peels back the squares of gauze. "Do have any idea how pissed off Dr. Svenson will be if he has to re-do these because you can't control your anger?"

She sets the bloody bandages down on the bed, and Dean sneaks a peak at his hand. It's doesn't look good, but he's had enough practice to know it's not exactly bad either. The stitches are still intact, but most of the wounds have begun bleeding again.

"So…your brother?"

She's trying to be casual, as she lays out some clean bandages, but as far as Dean is concerned, nothing about his relationship with Sam has ever been casual. He shrugs, and manages to do so without further aggravating his injuries.

"Younger, if I even have to say it. He's got this annoying habit of putting himself where he doesn't belong. I don't even know how he found out I was here."

"They checked your cell phone," Mary replies, and begins wiping up the blood none too gently. "Reception called the last dialed number, and Sam answered."

Dean starts to close his hands again before a glare from Mary stops him cold. "Why the fuck would they do that? I told you guys my name. I told you there wasn't anyone to call."

She just raises her eyebrows incredulously. "Oh, please. Lars Ulrich? Next time you make up a name, try not to use one from one of the world's most popular metal bands."

"Hey, I would've come up with a better one, but I was a little out of my mind with pain. You know, from the horrendous car wreck I was in?" He frowns a little, thinking the pain medication must've affected him if he can't remember the last time he was this honest with anyone. And then something else occurs to him. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me everyone knows that the name is fake, and they still call me Mr. Ulrich?"

Mary grins, her blue eyes light up with obvious mischief. "They think it's cute. What can I say? It's not everyday someone like you gets admitted."

"Someone like me?" He tries to find some resentment at being labeled, or some embarrassment to hear that everyone is laughing at him behind his back, but he doesn't possess either. Unbelievably, he feels the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile.

"Don't change the subject." Mary presses a fresh square of gauze against the stitches, and begins wrapping carefully. "I want to hear about your brother, and why you told him you never want to see him again."

"It's a long story," he says, but Mary is unaccustomed to his pattern of behaviours. She mistakes the set jaw and tense shoulders as a sign of pain, and apologizes softly as she tapes the bandages in place.

"My rounds are all done. I don't have anywhere to be."

She sits down in the chair Sam reluctantly vacated, and rests her elbows on the edge of Dean's mattress. He wants to make some kind of remark about how the last time he checked, registered nurse was not a synonym for therapist, or psychologist. He wants to tell her to buzz off, and mind her own business. But remarkably, he takes a breath to do just that, and instead begins talking about how he and Sam parted ways so many years ago.

It takes twenty-five minutes for him to get the entire story out, and when he is finished, he feels more tired than he has in weeks. He's also reassured himself that he's doing the right thing by pushing Sam away before Dean remembers how nice it feels to have him there, and he leaves again.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I've had this chapter saved on my computer for a few weeks, and I have no idea how I couldn't forgotten to post it. Enjoy!

* * *

Thirty-five minutes since Sam was escorted from Dean's room by a nurse half his size, and he's beginning to get restless. He's already contacted his insurance company, and arranged to have all of Dean's expenses taken care of. He knows his brother well, and he's positive Dean won't like it, but it's better than trying to pay with a fraudulent credit card and getting caught when he can't even make a run for it.

He's been to the nurses station, been updated on who Dean's been flirting with, and who he's been actually getting a response from. The list is disturbingly low on both counts.

He's consumed four cups of fairly decent coffee, been to the bank of vending machines at the other end of the hall, and visited the rest room twice. He's taken off his wool sweater, put it back on, and taken it off again. The only thing left to do is speak with Dean's doctor. But of course, he doesn't do this most logical thing. He rarely thinks logically when it comes to his brother.

Instead, he finds himself wandering back down the hallway, towards the room he was recently unceremoniously thrown out of. He's moving into dangerous territory, he knows, pushing his brother when Dean is already at a critical limit. But he feels as though something about this is different from their usual, albeit far in the past, exchanges. This time, he can't simply back off and let Dean work out things out on his own. He tried to do that once before, and that was seven years ago. He won't go through that again.

Sam stands in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. The curtain that blocked his line of view earlier has been pulled back. Sam can see Dean reclined in his bed, leg still propped with pillows. The remote to a small plasma screen television is held awkwardly in one bandaged hand. If the grimace on Dean's face is any kind of indication, his opinion on the quality of daytime programming has not improved in the last few years.

Dean doesn't have to take his eyes off the screen to know he is being watched.

"I should have known you wouldn't stay gone." He lifts his gaze briefly, then returns to the randomly selected talk show. "Gotta say I'm surprised you managed to go a whole forty minutes before barging back in here. Your self-control's improving, I see."

Sam refuses to take the bait. He pushes off the wall, and walks to the foot of Dean's bed, effectively blocking the television with his slim 6'4" stature.

"Uh, Sammy? You make a better door than a window, pal. Get the hell out of the way."

His features are twisted into an expression of anger, but the emotion doesn't reach his eyes. He looks almost…apathetic. Like he puts in a token protest not because Sam is actually pissing him off, but because he knows it's expected of him.

"Can you put away the asshole act for two goddamn minutes, Dean? Just let me talk to you." Sam doesn't know where the anger is coming from, but he's not about to deny it. Without anger to fall back on, he feels as though he might burst into tears and cling to his brother like he hasn't done since he was six.

"It's not an act, Sammy. I would've thought you'd know that by now."

Sam just rolls his eyes. Seven years with nothing, and all it takes is two minutes before he wants to strangle his brother. So typically Winchester. Nothing ever goes easily.

Like earlier, he grabs a nearby chair and drags it over. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Dean's expression is one of insulted incredulity. "'Can I tell you what happened?' What the fuck, am I a victim now? I saw something on the road, and swerved to miss it." His hand comes up to rub on the back of his neck; Sam recognizes it as the tell it is, and wonders what his brother is hiding. "Just didn't turn out all that well."

"Right," Sam says. He doesn't bother pretending like he believes Dean. "Well, I talked to the towing company. The Impala's totaled. They're going to see what they can do, but it doesn't look too good."

Dean simply sighs softly, and nods. He looks like he's resigned to the fate of his car, and has already dealt with it. "Yeah, I didn't think it would. What can you do, right? It's only a car."

And Sam is so taken aback by those words his jaw nearly unhinges as it drops. Dean looks over, raises his eyebrows and smirks.

"You wanna shut that, big guy? You're going to attract flies, and they tend to frown on that sort of thing in hospitals."

Sam recovers from his shock and leans forward, resting his elbows on the bed railing. "Are you kidding me? You love that car, Dean."

"Loved, Sammy. Past tense. It's gone now." He shifts uncomfortably on the mattress, wincing as the motion pulls on sore muscles. "And besides, it's only a car. It's not like I lost-"

"Excuse me, Mr. Ulrich?"

Dean's mouth closes with a snap as the shutters come down across his face and both Winchesters spin towards the open door. A tall, thickly built man with dark hair and even darker eyes is standing in the doorway, dressed professionally in a well-tailored suit with a beige overcoat. "My name is-" He catches sight of Sam from the other side of the bed, and his eyes light up with recognition.

"Winchester! What the hell are you doing here? I had no idea you people moved so fast."

"Well, hey there, Jake." Equally surprised, Sam stands, wipes the palms of his hands on his jeans, and steps forward with his hand outstretched. "I'm not here on business. This is my brother Dean."

They turn simultaneously to where Dean is watching the exchange with wary eyes. This new man, this Jake, has the smell of cop on him so strong Dean can almost see the stink lines. He tries to get Sam's attention, tries to catch his gaze, but as if he'd forgotten how to work with a partner, Sam is ignorant to the signals Dean sends.

"Well, another Winchester. Older, I'm guessing. You a superhero, or something? The way your brother goes at it, I wouldn't be at all surprised."

Dean simply bares his teeth in what might approximate a smile in some parts of the world. "Not exactly. Sammy here's always been the star of the family."

If either of them hears the bitterness interlaced in his words, they don't make it known.

"What are you doing here, Jake?" Sam crosses his arms, hitches a hip onto the edge of Dean's bed. He's not aware of his defensive posture, or of placing himself in between his brother and their visitor. Dean notices, however, and resolves to bring it up with Sam as soon as their visitor leaves.

"I'm lead investigator for your brother's accident."

Sam raises his eyebrows in an expression of incredulity. "They sent an award winning detective to investigate a car accident? You're joking, right?"

Jake shrugs one shoulder, looks past Sam to where Dean lay carefully schooling his features to hide his anger. "It's a slow day. And a car accident is no joke, is it, Mr. Ulrich?"

Dean has enough practice reading people to hear the shift in Jake's tone. He addresses Sam with professional courtesy, maybe even a hint of friendship, but Dean with something else entirely. Something almost…suspicious. He knows he's going to have to keep an eye on this man, because fooling his brother is one thing. A stranger far enough removed from the situation to see it in it's entirely is another matter all together.

Dean's gaze narrows, and he opens his mouth to speak, but it's Sam's voice that comes up. "Ulrich is our mother's maiden name, Dean goes by hers. Lars is, uh, his middle name."

"Is that right?" Jake says slowly, and his tone suggests that he might be more apt to believe him if Sam had said Dean is actually the long lost love child of Madonna and ex-President Bush.

"Our parents were big metal fans," Dean adds. "I was born first, so I got stuck with the novelty name. Sammy here got off easy."

Dean teasingly nudges Sam with his good knee, the one not encased in fiberglass, and the motion feels brotherly and natural, almost like the gap caused by past seven years didn't exist between them. Sam is surprised by the gesture, and catches himself before he allows the wide grin to appear.

"You have no idea how lucky you are," Sam says over his shoulder. The subtle smile is calculated, planned, and measured but not fake. "There's only one way to say Dean. No variations, no nicknames."

Dean ducks his head, chuckles softly, but still manages to notice Jake's shoulders droop slightly, the unbending iron in his spine relaxing. There was a time when sibling bantering came easily to the brothers Winchester. Now, Dean finds comfort in the fact that if it's not entirely sincere, at least they can fake it convincingly.

"You mind if I ask you a few questions, Dean? Just a formality, really."

Sam's back stiffens just noticeably, but Jake doesn't notice and Dean's easy smile would've put him at ease anyway. "Sure, no problem. Shoot."

"Do you remember how fast you were going?" Jake pulls a small memo book out of an inner pocket of his outer coat, and flips through some pages.

Dean shrugs. He decides to play his odds on the fact that this man will not give him a speeding ticket after the fact. "70, I guess. Give or a take a couple. Definitely too fast for that stretch of road."

Jake smirks, jots a couple of notes into the black covered memo book indicative of any one who shares his profession. "I appreciate your honesty; that's a rarity these days. So you told the paramedics a deer jumped in front of the car?"

Dean pointedly ignores the looks Sam is sending him, the finger he is slashing across his own throat from just beyond the cop's shoulder. Sam is not Dean's legal counsel, and beside the point, Dean has nothing to hide. Well, not really, anyway. Regardless, he doesn't have a problem answering any questions the cop might throw his way.

"I think it was a deer. Coulda been something else, I guess. Just a brown blur out of the corner of my eye. I swerved to avoid it, and, uh, I guess you know the rest."

Jake nods thoughtfully, scribbles some more in his little notebook. Dean finally looks over at Sam in time to see his little brother mouth the word "jerk."

"Bitch," Dean mimes, sticking his tongue out. He wants to flash his brother the finger, but the bulky bandages would make it an inordinately difficult ordeal, and anyways, Jake is looking up and appears to be considering his next question.

"So. It was late at night, right?" He consults his notebook. "Just after midnight? Any possibility you fell asleep?"

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but as before, Sam's the one that speaks up. "Not a chance. Dean isn't the type."

'There's a type?' Dean wants to question, but he doesn't get the chance.

Jake raises his hands in a placating manner. "It doesn't mean anything, Sam. The human body can only take so much, and if your brother still looks beat after a day and a half of rest in a hospital bed…it's just a question."

Sam is standing, probably unconsciously squaring his shoulders and making his slight frame look as large as possible. Dean watches it happening, but he can barely believe that it looks as though his brother might come to blows over something as simple as an insinuation that Dean fell asleep at the wheel. It wouldn't be the first time Sam was ready to fight over what he perceives as Dean's honour, but it would be over the slightest of implications.

"I didn't fall asleep," Dean breaks in. As much as he would like to see Sam kick this man's ass, he knows assaulting a police officer isn't something they can charm their way out of. "It was late, but I'm sort of a night owl. Prefer to drive in the dark."

He lifts his good foot off the bed, and pokes Sam in the thigh with his big toe. "Remember, Sammy? We did most of our driving in the dark."

It isn't true, of course. Sam always held the suspicion that sleeping at night was the only aspect of normal life that Dean was willing to entertain. Maybe with everything in their life going the way it did, keeping semi-reasonable hours was the thing to remind Dean that he wasn't completely alone in the world.

But Jake doesn't know any of this. And Sam may be out of practice, but he doesn't miss his cue. The tense set of his shoulders begins to relax, and he sits back down on the edge of Dean's bed. "Yeah, I remember. It used to drive me crazy."

Jake smiles tightly, and writes some more in his memo book. "Did you guys move around a lot, or something?"

The brothers exchange glances. Dean smirks, and looks down at his hands.

"We road-tripped a lot," Sam answers. His fingers brush Dean's cast when he leans back on his hands. "Practically lived out of the car for a year or so."

"Must have been fun."

Dean snorts laughter, and this time has to press his lips together to keep it in. "Yeah, it was a barrel of laughs." He doesn't mention how much stitches hurt when you can't afford painkillers, or how much sleeping in the backseat of the car, even one as glorious as the Impala, can mess with your back after a week or two. He doesn't bring up how raw your nerves become when you live your life in a constant state of worry, certain that the thing that's going to take away the rest of your family is waiting around the next corner.

This time Sam doesn't catch his eye.

The conversation, if it could even be called that, falls flat. Jake, apparently unaware of the years-old emotion his question just brought up, continues to write in his memo book as though nothing is wrong. Sam is staring down at the toes of his sneakers, the same treadless, useless kind, Dean notices, that his brother wore the last time they were together.

"So, how do you guys know each other?" Dean asks, because as uncharacteristic of him as it is, he doesn't like the tension in the hospital room and needs some way to break it. He leans back against the pillows, rests his hands on his stomach, and tries his best to portray the innocent yet curious older brother. He wants to change the tone of the conversation, make it become less like an informal police interrogation, and more like friends chatting casually over the salinated IV drip. Of course, he would rather break his other leg than have this man as a friend, but that doesn't even enter into his train of thought.

"We work together," Jake says, glancing at Sam, and Dean would have to be blind to miss his chest puffing out with pride. "I catch the bad guys, your brother puts them away for life. Best prosecutor in the state."

Dean doesn't look surprised, and Sam wonders if maybe he knew all along, or has just gotten that much better at hiding his feelings from his brother. Sam wouldn't put either option past him.

"I always knew he would make a great lawyer," Dean says with a smile, and is that pride Sam can see glistening in his eyes? "He gave me such a hard time growing up I knew he couldn't be anything else."

Sam laughs indignantly. "Who gave who trouble? Last time I checked, you were the one who told me Santa Clause was a monster who snuck down your chimney and stole all your toys."

"How was I supposed to know it would give you nightmares? We didn't have a fireplace back then, and besides you didn't have any-" He starts to say _toys, _but realizes how it would sound to someone who hadn't been there, who hadn't known all that they did have in place of the newest Power Ranger action figure. "You didn't have anything to worry about," he finishes carefully, noticing the curious look Jake is slanting his way.

Lucky for him, Jake flips his memo book closed, and slips it back inside his jacket. "Well, that's all I need for now. I should probably get back to the station." He reaches across Dean's legs to shake Sam's hand, and pats the knee of Dean's cast gently. "We might need to get in touch with you for some further questions as part of a follow-up. Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Sam interrupts before his brother can say anything, and Dean is getting really tired of being rail-roaded. "He'll be with me, at my house. You can get in touch with him there."

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Sam has again picked up the slack, and begins spouting shoptalk to fill in the silence. None of what he says makes any sense to Dean, but the oldest Winchester supposes that is probably the point. Sam carefully leads his co-worker from the room with an arm across his shoulders, leaving his brother alone and fuming, a once deadly combination.

Dean really doesn't want to stay with Sam. Living in such close quarters once more will do nothing for either of them but bring up past painful memories. Wounds that have more or less healed will be reopened, and the airing of grievances is something neither Dean nor Sam himself is particularly fond of.

On the other hand, Dean's reasonably confident Sam won't charge him room and board. And since he never anticipated ending up in a hospital, the wad of hundred dollar bills he has stashed away has no hope of covering both the medical bills and a place to stay. The only logical thing to do is accept Sam's not-quite-offer-more-like-demand, and go home with him. But there's no logic anywhere that says Dean has to enjoy it.

Sam re-enters the room then, looking entirely pleased with himself. He notices the expression on Dean's face, correctly interprets it, and his smile is wiped clean. "You're coming home with me, Dean." It's not a request, and he says it as though Dean not coming back with him isn't even an option. If Dean hadn't already decided that he would, he might've taken exception to that.

"I had no idea you were that kind of guy, Sammy. Not even going to take me out to dinner?"

Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean notices the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Fuck you, dude. I'm going to go talk to your doctor."

"I'm only doing this to make you feel better, Sam. You're clearly lost without my influence. I don't need your help!"

Sam shows Dean his back as he turns on his heel, and he waves a hand dismissively over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

He disappears into the hallway, the sound of his laughter echoing back into the hospital room. Dean sighs heavily, and relaxes back against his pillows. He holds no disillusions about how easy this is going to be. He and Sam are opposites in every possible meaning of the word, and seven years without each other's company isn't going to change a thing. If anything, it would exasperate any clashes they might have had, any issues they left unresolved.

His misgivings aside, he can't deny how good it feels to see his brother alive, and doing so well. He's obviously kept tabs on Sam throughout the years, but reading information on a piece of paper doesn't hold a candle to seeing it first hand. It might be good to see Sam in this normal life he used to hold in such high regard.

Of course, he's never going to know how it will work out without trying it first. And if it doesn't, there's always the cut and run option. Dean has a lot of practice with that.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Okay, longest chapter on record. Huge thanks to Monica for the out-of-this-world beta job. Enjoy!

* * *

Sam knows he should be paying attention to what Dean's doctor is saying. He knows first-hand how important it is to take proper care of serious injuries. He should be taking frigging notes.

But he can't ignore the bubbling of nervousness in the pit of his stomach. Bringing Dean home with him was never an issue; Sam knew the minute he saw his older brother with a cast on his leg that he would be changing the linens on the bed in the guest bedroom. And he's happy about it. He really is. Needing to take care of Dean, to keep an eye on his injuries is a great excuse to get to know him all over again, to mend the bridges that had broken between them. Living without his brother in his life hasn't exactly been hell, but this is certainly preferable to the alternative. So he's happy. Really, he is.

The only problem he has, if a gun was held to his head and he was forced to identify one, would be the fact that Dean has never integrated well into normal life. While Sam has grown up craving the mundane and ordinary, Dean becomes restless far too quickly without something to kill or something trying to kill him. And Dean's not exactly the easiest person to get to know. There are so many touchy points and mental traps hidden in his sub-conscious that holding a simple, sincere conversation with someone outside the business is near impossible for him. Sam knows he is going to have to be careful about time spent between Dean and his family.

So, maybe he feels a little trepidation towards Dean coming home with him. It doesn't change the fact that he would do, and is doing, anything for his brother. He will happily cultivate an ulcer borne of worry if it means Dean is safe, and they are together under Sam's roof.

"Do you have any questions, Mr. Winchester?"

Sam comes back to himself, and blinks owlishly at the doctor, a petit, middle-eastern man with round tortoise shell glasses. He glances down at the instruction sheets the doctor handed to him when they were introduced, and shakes his head. He feels confident enough in his experience to know he can handle it. If not, the hospital is a short drive away.

"No, thank you, Dr. Deep. I think we'll be all right."

The doctor smiles, and offers his hand, which Sam takes in a warm handshake. "If anything arises, please feel free to give me a call. Your brother is a very lucky man, but things could quickly go the wrong way if he's not properly cared for."

'If only he could hear you say that,' Sam thinks, as his smile widens, and he thanks the doctor once more.

For the past twenty-five minutes, he has been filling out forms, signing his name, and listening patiently to a variety of instructions from a variety of different people. It's no doubt that when he returns to his brother's room, Dean looks surprised to see him.

"I thought you bailed on me," he says shifting uncomfortably on the bed. His clothes had been ruined in the accident, and though he had probably whined like a little girl throughout the whole process, the nurses had helped him put on a pair of mint green medical scrubs and a dark blue pullover they found in the lost and found. It smells a little funky, Sam notices as he moves to Dean's side, but the ride home isn't a long one, and he has a closet full of clean, freshly laundered clothes Dean can change into.

"I'm not leaving you," Sam says, and wants to add, 'not again.' But that would be dangerously approaching 'chick flick territory,' and if he wants to get Dean back to his house, he's going to have to try and not scare him away. He pretends not to notice the emotion written across Dean's face.

"Are you going to be able to handle those?" Sam grabs a pair of crutches leaning against the wall, if only to steer the conversation in a different direction, and though they're a little short for him, he manages to maneuver in the small space fairly well.

"Dude, are you kidding? I was the champ of crutch walking when we were kids. I'll be fine."

Sam rolls his eyes. He places the crutches on the wall and sits next to Dean on the edge of the bed. "I meant with your hands, dufus. That's probably going to be pretty painful."

"Yeah, I guess." Dean shrugs ruefully. "I'm not supposed to be walking much for a while anyway. What are we waiting for? Can we please get the hell out of here?"

More than anything, Sam would like to be on their way, but he isn't sure how to tell Dean that legally speaking, the only way he's getting out of the hospital is by orderly-pushed wheelchair. Luckily, he's saved from that particular obstacle when said wheelchair is moved through the doorway. Dean spots it right away, and doesn't need to be told why it's in his room.

"Oh, hell no. I can use the crutches just fine. Get that thing away from me." The look of disgust twisting his features might've been funny if Sam hadn't feared his brother might try and claw through the wall to avoid it.

"Dean, it's the only way. They can't let you leave the grounds if your ass isn't in that seat. It's a legal liability thing."

Dean fixes his brother with an intense look, hazel eyes as close to begging as he will probably ever come. There's a hint of desperation in the depths of Dean's eyes, as if there's something much more than merely his pride on the line. Sam wonders what that might be, but as soon as he thinks it, the shutters come down over Dean's face and he just look angry. And petulant. "Sam, I can walk just fine. I don't need a fucking wheelchair."

Sam can only shrug. "I'm sorry, Dean. It's the only way you can get out of here. There's nothing I can do."

The orderly remains silent behind the wheelchair, as if knowing anything he could say would in fact decrease the chances of getting this difficult patient out of here. His gaze moves back and forth between the brothers, waiting patiently for one to give in so he could get on with his day. He doesn't have to wait long.

Dean lets out a long, melodramatic moan worthy of a melancholic water buffalo, and gingerly gets to his feet. He predictably shakes off Sam's offering hand of assistance, and hops over to the wheelchair with a grimace, leaving behind him a string of obscenities covering everyone from Sam himself to the hospital's administration to the producers of wheelchairs. He settles into the seat with a groan, and sends Sam a heated glare.

"You're lucky I'm in such an accommodating mood."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Oh, is that what this is? Let's just get the hell out of here before you manage to offend someone else."

Above Dean and slightly to the side, the orderly smirks, but carefully schools his features when Dean whips around to stare at him.

They move through the corridors without incident, but Sam doesn't miss Dean's eyes searching the crowds of working people on either side. He's looking for someone, Sam realizes, but he knows that to ask will only get him a cocky, snide remark while Dean shuts down a part of himself. So he keeps his lips pressed together, silent, as they reached the elevator and Dean looks at his hands, brow turned down in disappointment.

The orderly lays a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I'll be right back, Mr. Ulrich."

He moves away, heading back towards the nurses station. Dean's head remains down, his chin tucked against his chest and tilted slightly to the right. He mumbles something, but Sam doesn't catch it, and has to lean down to hear it again.

"I said, hit the elevator button."

Sam complies without questioning why, and it isn't until Dean's reaching for the crutches still in his hand that Sam realizes what's going on. If he was a little worried earlier when Dean acquiesced to the wheelchair a little too easily, that worry is replaced with relief when his brother lurches to his feet and with the aid of the crutches, limps onto the waiting elevator.

"Dude, I told you I can walk fine," he says, in response to the sharp bark of laughter that bursts from Sam's lips. He struggles a little with the cast, but manages anyhow, and the doors close on Sam and Dean's sinfully wicked smiling faces as the orderly returns and sees what just happened.

"Do you realize-" Sam begins as he reaches out and hits the button to take them to the lobby. "-That it's only been two hours since we hooked up again, and I've already lied to a friend, not to mention a detective, and helped you violate hospital procedure, procedure that's in place for a reason?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Sorry, grandma. I didn't know what else to do; the game of euchre was all filled up." He glances up at the illuminated numbers lining the area above the elevator doors, and drums the fingers of his good hand against his thigh. "Since when did you become Mr. Law Abiding Citizen anyway? I seem to recall you committing a surprising amount of felonies back in the day."

Sam's glare could cut steel, but Dean's not willing to acknowledge it. His hazel eyes flit about the small enclosure, landing on everything that isn't vaguely Sam-shaped.

"Since I found myself a life to protect. I've changed, Dean."

And just like that Dean's gaze lands solidly on his brother's face, studying features with a strange intensity. "I can see that," he says softly, his gaze lingering on the laugh lines that have appeared at the corners of Sam's eyes.

An acknowledging beep sounds through the elevator, announcing their arrival on the main floor as the doors open to the bustling activity of the lobby.

"So that's it?" Dean asks, as he adjusts his grip on the crutches and doesn't wince as the action pulls on still healing wounds. "We're done? I don't have to come back here?"

Sam holds the elevator door open as Dean struggles out. "Barring any complications, you're good. Whether or not you can keep your ass in a bed long enough to heal remains to be seen, however."

"Just you wait. I will heal faster than anyone has healed in the history of injuries." He makes a face when Sam's hand falls on the small of his back to help guide him through the opening doors. At this point, though, he knows better than to bite at the hand that will hopefully feed him in the near future.

"Everything has to be a competition with you, doesn't it?" The sidelong glance Sam sends his brother is tinged with amusement as he digs in his back pocket for his car keys.

"Does not." Dean looks expectantly around the parking lot, checking out the available rides for no other purpose than to give him somewhere to look. "Whatever you drive, I bet it's not half as cool as the Impala was." He sees nothing that catches his interest, and though he has long since dealt with the demise of his car, he feels his heart tighten just noticeably at the thought of driving with Sam in some other car. It smacks faintly of betrayal, and Dean is nothing if not loyal. Even to a car.

Again, Sam rolls his eyes. "You don't need me for these discussions, do you? You prove my point all on your own."

"Whatever, dude. Just point me in the direction of your little hatchback and let me get rid of these damn things."

His words, however unintentionally telling they are, clue Sam in to just how hurt his brother really is. He points to the Explorer that naturally is at the end of a long line of cars. "It's down there." He wants to offer to bring the car around while Dean waits, but he knows the only way he would get that done is with a set of handcuffs and a length of rope.

Dean doesn't say anything, but the sweat sprouting on his brow speaks louder than any words. For not the first time in life, he fears he might've over-extended himself. It wasn't that long ago he was unconscious on the operating table, getting pins inserted to stabilize the compound fracture of his left leg. Maybe he moved a little too quickly in pushing to leave, if the trembling in his elbows and knees is anything to go by.

"You want me to-"

"No, Sam. I'm fine."

Sam rolls his eyes, but a small part of him is relieved. If Dean has the strength to act like a tough guy, than he can't be as bad off as Sam's instincts are screaming. But the conversation and potential argument is rendered moot as they reach the Explorer.

"Get in the back," Sam says, as he takes the crutches and tosses them into the trunk. "There's more room for your cast."

"Geez, you sure are getting bossy in your old age, aren't you?" Dean opens the door with a grimace, then carefully levers himself up onto the leather seats, biting the inside of his cheek until it bleeds to keep from moaning. He slides all the way to the other side, with his back against the opposite door and his cast stretched out on the seat before him. Sam closes the back door, and climbs in the drivers seat before replying.

"Whatever you say, bro, just remember that no matter how old I get, you're always four years older."

Dean makes a face, but has no response so he keeps his mouth shut and leans his head back against the window. Up in the front seat, Sam starts the car, and before he can reach the radio, the sounds of Metallica's Wherever I May Roam blast through the speakers. A surprised, self-righteous grin threatens to break Dean's face in half.

"What's this, Sammy? You listen to actual music now?" Sam's face burns red as he turns off the CD player, and is saved further embarrassment by the fact that in the back seat, Dean can't see the blush. "No more Green Day, or Fall Out Boy, or God forbid" –Dean shutters theatrically, speaking as though he's got a mouthful of shit and doesn't want to say the word- "Maroon 5? Good for you."

Sam shifts into reverse, and twists in his seat to back the SUV up. He glances at Dean's amused features before focusing on the task at hand. "Don't get all high on yourself. It just reminds me of the old days."

He puts the Explorer into drive, and carefully maneuvers around the busy parking lot, making certain he doesn't accidentally glance in the mirror and catch sight of Dean's mocking expression.

When two minutes later, Dean still hasn't said anything, Sam risks peeking into the mirror, and is surprised by the softly stunned expression his brother is sporting as he stares at Sam's reflection. "What? What do you keep looking at?"

"Dude," Dean says, his voice heavy with uncharacteristically expressed emotion. "The past seven years without my stabilizing influence turned you into a sentimental, emotional woman, didn't it? A woman with good taste in music, but a woman nonetheless." He smirks, lays his head back against the window, and closes his eyes.

Sam can only shake his head. He briefly entertains the idea of slamming on the brakes and sending the seatbelt-less Dean into the back of the front seats, but forgoes the notion when he remembers that an injured Dean, much like a wild animal, is a very dangerous thing to be in an enclosed space with.

Dean's quiet for a blessed ten minutes during which Sam begins to wonder about the logistics of explaining this seeming sudden addition to his family to his wife when his brother suddenly sits up straight in the backseat, hazel eyes wide in shock.

"Dude, your vibrator's going off against my ass."

Sam, who despite being apart for seven years, is well versed in the segue-less style of Dean-speak, still has no idea what the hell the man is talking about? "My what is doing what with your what?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Your cell phone, Sam. And you call me perverted?" He tosses the offending object into the front seat; it bounces off Sam's shoulder and lands in his lap. Keeping one eye on the road, Sam flips open the phone and reads the screen. He promptly sucks in a breath.

13 missed calls. And as he sits staring at the screen, wondering what he could possibly say that might take away the sting of forgetting to call for three hours, the phone buzzes in his hand. Not just a reminder of the calls he missed, but an actual incoming call. He flips it open and answers.

"Sam, Jesus! Where have you been? I've been out of my mind! You said you were just going to get diapers, and that was two hours ago! What were you thinking?" His wife is obviously frantic and terrified with worry, so how can he blame her when he has to hold the phone away from his ear to avoid his eardrums getting blasted out?

"I was at the hospital, Kellie." He doesn't think before he says it, and winces as stunned silence settles over the line. "I'm okay, though," he amends quickly. "I'm not hurt."

"Then what's going on?" She sounds wary, without the edge of desperation from seconds earlier, but still concerned nonetheless.

"I'm on my way back now. I'll be there in a half hour, traffic willing." He glances back at Dean, looking pale and drawn with his eyes closed and leaning back against the window. He doesn't want to have to explain to Kellie that he is in fact not an only child, like he told her, but that he hid the existence of an older brother from her to keep her from probing too deeply into his past. At least, not when said hidden older brother is painfully within earshot in the backseat. She thinks he is an only child, that his parents were killed in a car accident when he was thirteen, and he was bounced around in foster homes until he was eighteen. His wife is a fair woman, but he has no idea how she will react to being told she's been lied to the entire six years they've been together.

"Sam, what's going on?"

Sam blows a sigh out through his lips, and looks back in the rearview mirror. A pair of slitted hazel eyes meets his gaze; his grip tightens unconsciously on the wheel.

"Everything's fine, sweetheart. I'll be home soon. I love you." He snaps the phone shut, cutting off her string of demanding questions and tosses it on the seat next to him. His attention is refocused on the road before him, and he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the stare he can feel on the back of his head. Of course, Dean could never stand to be ignored for longer than a few seconds at most.

"Dear wifey doesn't like the idea of her brother-in-law dropping in for a visit?" His voice has an edge to it, almost as if he's wise to the whole situation and resents it. Sam comforts himself with the fact that though he might pretend otherwise, Dean doesn't know everything, and there's no way he could possibly know how deep in denial Sam has been living.

"I never told you I was married."

A snort rises up from the backseat, and Sam clenches his jaw at the sound.

"You don't have to, bro. I'm not an idiot. I recognize the ball and chain that comes free with purchase of that little gold ring on your hand."

Sam sighs. He thinks back, tries to remember all the times Dean's saved his life, stood up for him, gone without something so Sam wouldn't have to. He pictures these events as clearly in his mind as he can so he won't reach in the back seat and throttle his incapacitated older brother.

Instead he tightens his already impossible grip on the steering wheel, and maneuvers his truck onto the off-ramp. If this ride is indicative of what's to come, he should plan ahead and pick up a few dozen bottles of aspirin before he gets home.

Luckily for Sam, Dean shows a surprising display of sensitivity and remains quiet the rest of the ride. At least, Sam thinks that's what it is, until he stops at the pharmacy to fill his brother's prescriptions, and notices Dean's mouth hanging open, his jaw slack in the sleep he had managed to fall into.

He stays like that while Sam drives through the maze of suburbs, at the center of which is his house. Just when Sam begins to wonder if maybe this unprecedented sleep is a little unnatural, he pulls onto the paved driveway and Dean wakes with a jerk. Sam watches as Dean's bandaged hand automatically reaches for the bowie knife he keeps in a sheath at his hip. When it comes away empty, he meets Sam's eyes in the mirror and seems to accept his vulnerability. Of course, things with Dean are never as they seem; Sam should've known better.

Kellie's waiting impatiently on the wraparound porch, her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest. She looks like it's taking every last vestige of her self-control not to run down those stairs, rip the door off it's hinges, and ensure her husband's safety with her own two hands.  
"Uh, stay here for a minute." Sam reaches for the door, even goes so far as to push the handle, but Dean's sudden touch on his shoulder stops him in his tracks.

"Sam, wait."

The youngest Winchester twists around in his seat, but Dean's no longer paying him any attention. His wide, disbelieving eyes flit around the scene before him, taking in everything and landing on nothing for long than a few seconds. He sees Kellie waiting on the porch, the flowerpots hanging from the railing. There's a kid's tricycle sitting on the front lawn, long since abandoned. A tire swing hangs from an old oak tree at the side of the house, moving slightly in the day's breeze, and a stroller has been parked in the corner where the garage and house meet, a half-full bottle of milk left in one of two cup holders. It's the perfect American apple pie life.

Dean swallows hard. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea." And that would be the understatement of the year. This isn't such a good idea like the war in Iraq was maybe not the best decision. His brother obviously has a life here, one with a wife who waits for him to get home safe and sound, and with kids who Dean knows without knowing idolize their father. The last thing Dean wants to do is taint everything with their shady past.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Of course, Sam doesn't see it the same way Dean does. Like he ever has.

"Look, just drop me off a motel somewhere. You got my prescriptions, I'll be fine."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Dean, stop it. I want you here." He sees the doubt on Dean's face, and tries to show his brother that he means what he says, but Dean won't meet his gaze.

"You don't want me here. You think you do, but as soon as you get me inside, and introduce me to your beautiful wife, she's going to start asking questions. Questions you are not going to want to answer. Just take me to a fucking motel, and save yourself the trouble."

"Screw you, Dean." Sam gets out of the SUV, moves to the back, and opens Dean's door so fast his brother nearly spills out onto the pavement. "If it was trouble, I wouldn't have driven all the way to the hospital. And I sure as hell wouldn't have dragged you here. I want you here, and you're not going to make me admit otherwise. Now quit being a frigging woman, and get your goddamn ass out of the car."

Dean can only blink. While he tries to remember the last time he was ordered around by his baby brother, said baby brother grabs his crutches from the trunk and thrusts them forcibly into Dean's bandaged hands. Dean awkwardly extricates himself from the backseat, and only manages to stay upright with assistance from Sam's hand on his side.

"Wait here," Sam says again, and leaves his brother leaning heavily against the side panel, breathing hard. Kellie has begun tapping her toe against the wood of the porch when Sam lands on the step in front of her.

"I'm sorry," he says, before she has a chance to get anything out. He understands how she feels; he's known first hand the kind of blinding terror that can rip through and apart a person when they think someone they love is in danger. Not going to the hospital, and to Dean, isn't something Sam considers an option, even in the past, but he wishes he went about it a different way.

Kellie frowns and her cherry coloured lips twists, she looks as though she might take issue with Sam's simple apology, but then she launches herself off the porch and throws her arms around Sam's shoulders.

"God, don't you ever do that again." She whispers desperately into the crook of his neck and shoulder. "I was so worried; I had no idea what happened to you."

He rubs her back, holds her tightly and kisses the side of her neck. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Something came up."

She pulls back, the question not on her lips obvious in her eyes. _What could be more important than your family?_ She doesn't realize the irony of the implied query, and Sam doesn't think it's appropriate to explain it to her just yet.

Her eyes narrow, and her gaze focuses just over his shoulder, as she seems to notice for the first time the man leaning awkwardly against the opposite side of the truck. "Sam, who is that? What's going on?"

Sam twists around, catches a glimpse of the tousled blond head over the roof of the SUV. He smiles tightly, and takes Kellie's hands in his own, gently squeezing as though it would help lesson the blow. "That's Dean. My, uh…he's my older brother."

"Your brother?" The confusion written across her face is a welcome understudy for the alternative. "But you told me you were an only child."

Sam sighs. This is where it gets tricky. No woman, even one as understanding as Kellie, would take well to being told she's been lied to for over six years. And Sam's not so big a fool he thinks he could come out of this unscathed. But Dean's worth it. He's worth it, and so much more.

"I know I did." He holds her eyes with his own, hoping she can read the sincerity there. "I…I lied to you, Kel. Dean and I, things didn't end too well the last time we saw each other, and I guess I was just trying to get past it. Dean represented a part of my life I didn't want to remember, so I cut him out. Sort of. But then the hospital called while I was on the way to the store, and they said he'd been hurt pretty bad in a car accident." He pauses, rubs one hand lovingly along her forearm, and takes it as a good sign when she doesn't pull away. "And when I got there, and he was lying in that tiny bed with his leg in this huge cast, I realized I can't just cut him out of my life. He's my brother, for God's sake. He's kind of a nomad, he doesn't really have a place, so I brought him here."

Kellie's gaze flickers back to the truck, and the sliver of Dean's head visible over the line of the roof. "Have you seen him since you've known me?"

Sam looks surprised at the question, but recovers, and shakes his head. "No. It's been the longer part of seven years since we've been together. I wasn't even sure he was alive until today." He bends slightly at the knee, so he can look her directly in the eye. "Kellie, I am so sorry I lied to you. I know it was so completely the wrong thing to do, and I would give almost anything to change that. But that's in the past. Dean's hurt bad now, and I'd like to get him inside so he can rest. Can we talk about this once he's settled?"

He can see his wife working the inside of her cheek with her teeth, a nervous tick she no doubt picked up from Sam himself, the King of Vices. He almost says something else, is literally seconds away from dropping to his knees and begging for her cooperation, but he can almost physically see her set her feelings on the backburner. As a mother, it's a skill she's had much practice with.

The tenseness in her shoulders loosens three quarters of a turn, and while she doesn't yet look Sam in the eye, she runs her hands through her hair and smoothes down the fly-aways. Then she steps around Sam, hops down the remaining stairs, and it's like none of this never happened. The cheerful bounce is back in her step, and when she sticks a hand out to Dean, it's steady and sure.

"Hi, Dean. I'm Kellie. Your sister-in-law."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I realize a lot of you have a problem with the fact that Sam would simply cut Dean out of his life. I'm going to ask that you suspend your disbelief, and keep in mind that I started writing this back between Hookman and Bugs. In light of the way the show's going, I'm inclined to belief with everyone. So let's just pretend it's a little AU, as well as futurefic. Haha. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

* * *

The side panel of the dark truck is hot against Dean's back, but he doesn't move. Couldn't move even if he possessed the motivation. Maybe he's a little worse off than he admitted to Sam, and to himself, no less. The knee of his good leg has begun to tremble, tiring quickly from having to support the weight of his entire body.

He thinks he might have trouble maneuvering himself up the steps of Sam's porch, but judging by the way the conversation between him and his wife seems to be going that might be a moot point. His hands tighten reflexively around the handles of his crutches, and he wonders how far he could get before Sam noticed he was gone.

But then that turns out to be the moot point, because he hears footsteps move down the wooden stairs, and onto the gravel of the driveway. Before he can straighten up, before he can wipe the look of pure misery off his face, sheappears in front of him. She's beautiful in a way that after seeing Jessica, Dean wouldn't have expected from his kid brother. Long, dark brown hair hanging around her face in loose curls, she has full lips, a pointed nose, and large chocolate brown eyes. She's wearing a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt with the Harvard logo stamped on the right breast, but he could just as easily imagine her in lingerie, spilled out across a loveseat for the eagerly awaiting cameras. And before he can hate himself for even beginning to think that about his brother's wife, she's smiling at him and holding her hand out for him to shake.

"Hi Dean. I'm Kellie. Your sister in law."

Her voice is soft and sultry, and he can almost hear the i-e at the end of her name. She shakes his hand carefully, mindful of the bandages and painful stitches beneath, and when she continues to look at him without saying anything, he realizes she's waiting for him to speak.

"Uh, hi. Yeah, it's good to meet you. I'm, uh, Dean."

For once, he's thankful for the painful damage to his face, because even the risk of scarring is made better by the simple fact that the bruising hides his blush. He's never felt awkward in front of women or girls, even back when he was a kid and after living non-stop with brother and dad, no female influence to speak of. But this woman, despite being one of the most beautiful he'd seen outside a magazine, represents something much more than that. She's the personification of everything Dean used to fear, everything Sam used to want in place of the life he was born into.

He flounders for something to say, but doesn't have to follow through because Sam appears just behind his wife and to the right. He looks mildly ashamed, an expression Dean doesn't think he's ever seen on his brother. Before he has a chance to think further on it, Sam is slipping past Kellie and laying a gentle hand on Dean's arm.

"Do you need a hand inside?"

And just like that they're back on familiar ground. As if he'd done it intentionally, Sam's hand drops away and he steps back with a smirk, just in time to avoid Dean's left elbow jab. "Dude, when I have ever needed 'a hand'?"

Sam looks pensive, tapping a finger against his chin as though deep in thought. "Well, do you want the abbreviated list, or should I go into detail?"

Sam falls back a step when Dean shoves him awkwardly, and watches with a strange tightness in his chest as his brother adjusts his crutches and begins the marathon journey to the front door. Kellie leads the way, walking slowly and speaking over her shoulder.

"We can set you up in the guest room. It's got it's own bathroom; I'll just have to change the bedding. It's been a little while since we've had anyone stay over."

"Don't go to any trouble on my account." Dean hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if it would be easier to hop up with the rail as his guide rather than use the crutches. "I've slept on worse than dusty sheets." He sets to work on getting his broken body up those steps; so intent on the task he doesn't notice Sam playing safety net behind him.

Kellie waits patiently by the front door, watching with warmth in her eyes at Sam's hand ghosting at the small of Dean's back. She's far from forgiving her husband for lying so extensively and so purposefully, but in the past two minutes, she's been introduced to a side of Sam she's never seen before. From orphan and single child to younger brother in a matter of minutes, she wonders if he's hidden anything else from her.

Sam has always been protective over their family, sometimes bordering on obsessive and approaching annoying, but seeing his attention focused on a stranger is to put it simply, strange.

"Don't be silly. It's no trouble." Dean's made it up the steps without trouble, and Kellie opens the front door, stepping inside ahead of him. She hears only the briefest of sounds, nails scratching against the wood floor, before Dean suddenly shouts something about getting down, then his casted arm sideswipes her and sends her tumbling into the wall next to him. Sam is sent similarly out of harms way, and before Kellie can blink, Dean's yielding a cast in his left hand like a club and reaching for something that seems to be missing in the waistband of his pants.

"Dean!" Sam's bellow surprises her, in spite of the scene in front of her, and it seems to break through whatever mental haze his brother has fallen into.

Dean blinks owlishly, staring in something akin to wonder at the crutch clenched awkwardly in his hand as if he doesn't know how it ended up there. His heart is beating fast and furious in his ears, thundering in a panicked reaction to something he is not yet aware of. And then the strange scratching sound appears again, and just like that he's back in hunter mode, crouching down to lower his center of balance, rather gracelessly with the addition of the full length cast.

"It's just the dog!" Sam yells again, wrenching the cast from Dean's hand at the same time that a well-muscled German Shepard comes barreling around the corner towards the trio. Kellie rises to her feet, grimacing and rubbing at the sore spot where her shoulder connected with the wall. She moves forward to intercept the dog before he can knock anyone to the ground. There's been enough of that going around already.

"Jesus," Dean mutters, looking in surprise at Sam, then turning around to Kellie. His hazel eyes are wide in astonishment. "I'm sorry, I didn't…I thought it was something else."

Sam bends to pick up the other crutch, abandoned on the floor in all the excitement. "A crutch? Fucking hell, Dean! What good is a wooden crutch going to be?"

Although not quite understanding the meaning of the words, Kellie recognizes the emotion behind them. She signals for the dog to sit and he obeys rather reluctantly, tongue lolling out as if in distaste of the command, brown eyes locked on the stranger standing in the foyer. "It's all right, Sam." Her shoulder still hurts, but Dean looks so embarrassed, like he's hoping the floor will open up and swallow him whole. Despite the fact that he caused it all, she can't help but feel for him. While she doesn't understand the forceful action, as a mother she more than knows the need to protect. And it's impossible for her to mistake her brother in law's actions for anything else. "Just a misunderstanding."

Sam still looks angry, a little tense around the shoulders, but he sighs anyway. "Yeah, those have a way of happening around him." He steps around his brother, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the sibling in mention.

"I said I was sorry!" Dean adjusts the crutches, and follows Sam onto the wooden floor. "Whadya want me to do? Get down on my knees and beg forgiveness?"

"It would be a good start, yeah!" He speaks the words in his most serious tone, but a smile is tugging at the corners of his lips, and if not for that, the twinkle in his eyes would've given him away.

Dean reaches to shove his younger brother, loses his balance and almost falls until Sam reaches out and steadies him with one hand. Dean doesn't acknowledge the save, Sam doesn't wait for a thank you, and Kellie watches the exchange with wide eyes and the sense of someone being left out of an inside joke.

"Kitchen's this way," Sam says, motioning with one hand over his shoulder. Dean adjusts his crutches and follows, chin dropped to his chest to hide the wide grin on his face.

Inside the stainless steel and black granite kitchen with gleaming appliances and spotless fruits in clear glass bowls, Sam catches the closest chair tucked under the mahogany table and kicks it over to Dean, who is unable to hide his grateful moan when he finally sinks into it.

"This is, uh, a really nice house," the eldest Winchester says, looking around at the hardwood floors, expensive looking furniture and shiny fixtures as though he actually had some idea as to how much any of it was worth.

Sam pulls a small wooden box out of the cupboard above the refrigerator, holds the kettle up to his ear and shakes it gently. "Yeah, well, the roof doesn't leak, we don't get booted out at checkout time, and the neighbours are more than three feet away."

Dean grins, wide and unassuming and without baggage, so like himself, like before, that Sam feels something inside his chest clench tight and cut off his breath. The expression is at complete odds with the damage to Dean's face, but it looks at home on his features nonetheless.

"Even so, it's still a nice house." The grin remains, and though Sam should've expected a comment like that from his brother, it surprises him anyways. The tightness in his chest disappears, and he wears a matching grin when he chucks the wet sponge at Dean's head. It misses its target, hits the floor with a splat, and Dean laughs.

"I can see your aim hasn't improved at all."

Sam shakes his head, sets the kettle in the sink and begins filling it. "Wrong, big brother. After all, the un-aimed arrow can never miss."

Dean pulls a face, contorting his features in such a way that has to put uncomfortable pressure on the bruises. "Dude, you know I hate it when you get philosophical."

Kellie appears in the archway leading to the kitchen, complete with massive tan and black coloured dog at her side before the conversation can turn a one-eighty. She lets the dog go and he rushes forward, shoving his snout into Dean's crotch and sniffing as though it's his last hour on Earth.

"Spike!" Sam barks from the other side of the kitchen, and Dean can remember a time when it was his name said in that menacing tone. "Back off!" The dog listens obediently in a way Dean never did, backs up a step and sits, tongue lolling out as if there's no room for it in his mouth.

"Sam, he's just trying to get to know your brother. He didn't do anything wrong." Kellie stands over the dog, her arms crossed in defiance, and Dean can sense a fight coming like the humidity in the air before a thunderstorm.

Sam doesn't look up as he pours boiling water into a trio of mugs and adds tea bags with a noisy plop. "Dean's hurt. He doesn't need a dog's nose shoving at him, pushing on all his bruises and stitches." He finally lifts his chin, and his green eyes are pleading. "He needs to take it easy."

Dean wants to protest, to let it be known that he is not some porcelain doll that's going to break in half with the chuffing breath of a dog. But he recognizes the emotions on Sam's face, sees the urge to mother-hen in his eyes, and he's brought back to a crazed road trip to Nebraska, mud up to their ankles and the debilitating inability to catch his breath.

Apparently Kellie reads the emotion correctly as well, for she grabs the dog by the collar, and speaking softly under her breath, leads him to the back door and the fenced yard beyond.

"Thanks." Their eyes meet over the potted plant sitting in the middle of the table, and just like that, all is forgiven. Well, maybe not all, but enough so that Kellie feels no conflicting emotions when her lips turn up into an answering smile. Everything else can wait until they are behind closed doors.

Sam carries the three mugs to the table, places one in front of his brother, hands one to his wife, and keeps the last for himself. Dean peers into the mug, sniffing suspiciously and wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Dude? Tea?"

Sam rolls his eyes as he sits down across the table. "It'll help your muscles relax, and it won't keep you up until dawn. Just drink it."

Dean picks the mug up as though it might reach out and bite him. "I don't have to stick my pinkie in the air, do I?"

Kellie laughs softly, but Sam's beginning to lose patience with his brother, frustration existing hand in hand with the elation that still lingers after finding him alive and reasonably well.

"Just shut up and drink the tea, okay? For once make this easy on me."

"Gotta keep you guessing, Sammy." Dean takes a sip of tea, and it's only by sheer force of determination that he keeps his lip from curling in disgust. "Wouldn't want you to get soft, now would I?"

Sam rolls his eyes again, the second time in as many minutes, but it's a smile he's hiding behind his mug.

"So, Dean. Sam never mentioned, what is it that you do?" Kellie assumes the eager listener pose, leaning forward on the table, elbows resting on the smooth, shiny surface with her chin in her hand. The pointer finger of her other hand absently traces the swirling patterns on her mug.

Dean shrugs listlessly, doesn't see the look of poorly disguised worry on his brother's face. "I'm sort of between things right now. Burning through some savings. Something will come up." He lifts his chin, catching Sam's meaningful gaze from across the table. "Something always does."

"Tell me about it," she says flippantly, and Dean wants to. He wants to tell stories of werewolves and vampires and demons just so that look of commiseration could be wiped off her face. Intellectually he knows she's not trying to annoy him, that it's his frayed nerves and quick temper that are to blame, but the slow burn inside his chest has its own ideas. She has no idea what his life has been like, not even the barest of hints if the clues Dean has been reading all night are anything close to being right.

Sam clears his throat loudly as if aware of Dean's burgeoning yet disproportionate anger. He glances at the watch on his wrist and says, "It's ten to three, Kel. Shouldn't you be heading out?"

Kellie frowns, checks her own watch and quickly rises to her feet. "Yeah, you're right. I'll be back in twenty minutes, or so."

And then she's gone, moving quickly towards the front hallway and swiping a set of keys off a side table on her way out. Sam waits until the door closes behind her before he rises to his feet.

"I bet you want to get out of those clothes," he says, grabbing his brother's half-empty mug and instinctually knowing he's done with it, dropping it in the sink. "I can show you the guest bedroom while we're up there."

He waits patiently with his arms crossed while Dean lurches to his feet, unable to hide the accompanying grimace.

"Dude, I don't suppose you're hiding an elevator around here anywhere."

Sam's eyebrows rise in barely disguised astonishment. His brother's attempt at humour is quite possibly the closest he will ever get to admit sickness or injury, and like before, it's very telling about just how poorly Dean is feeling.

"No, no elevator," Sam says, slowing his speed and shortening his stride to match Dean's as they move back towards the front of the house and the stairway leading upstairs. "But if you ask real nice, pretty please with a cherry on top kind of nice, then I'll consider giving you a piggy back ride."

Instead of indignation, Dean snorts laughter. "Says you, string bean. Like your scrawny ass could carry me up those stairs."

Sam makes a show of giving Dean an appraising stare, finishing with a nod and a disapproving frown. "You know, you're right. You have gained weight. Well, if you can't make it on your own, I guess I can call one of the neighbours."

The middle finger tossed over his shoulder at Sam slows Dean's rhythm down, but he considers the sacrifice worth it. It's been so long, too long if he's honest with himself, that they participated in actual, no-holds-barred verbal sparring without some hidden mental landmines to carefully step around. Of course, having been apart for seven years, neither would know if these traps existed but the instinct to return to their natural bantering state is much too strong for such trivialities.

Sam again acts as safety net while Dean lumbers his way up the flight of stairs, internally grateful they're hardwood and not slippery carpet. Never in his thirty-five years has he been afraid of falling down the stairs and breaking a hip, but his brief and nearly unbearable hospital stay has helped put things into perspective. He wants to avoid that place like it harbours the Ebola virus.

He's breathing hard when he reaches the second floor, but Sam thankfully doesn't acknowledge it. He simply leads the way down the carpeted hall, past several closed doors on either side, to the one open at the very end. He pushes the door open for Dean and enters behind him.

The room is decorated with a lean more towards functionality than beauty. The bed is a double, mahogany head and footboards with a plain light green comforter and accompanying flannel sheets. The walls are painted a similar green, though several shades lighter, with matching curtains covering the windows. A door in the far right hand corner presumably leads to the ensuite bathroom, with double doors next to it predictably the closet.

Sam leaves his brother in the doorway, and begins stripping the bed, leaving the comforter folded back but pulling the sheets off all together.

"There's a stack of clean towels in the bathroom," Sam explains, motioning over his shoulder to the closed door behind him. "But you know not to get the stitches wet, so you should probably wait to have a shower. Extra toothbrushes and toothpaste are in the medicine cabinet; Kellie likes to keep a supply on hand for anyone dropping by."

He dumps the pile of dusty sheets near the door, and pulls a fresh set of the same colour out of the room's matching mahogany dresser. "I picked up everything else, shaving stuff, that deodorant you like, while I was getting your prescriptions so that's all taken care of. I don't think you…"

He looks up suddenly from his task, hands frozen in the process of smoothing out the wrinkles. Dean remains in the same spot he settled in when they first entered, an unreadable mask of emotion on his face.

"Dean? You okay?"

The eldest Winchester visibly pulls himself together, and says in a thick voice, "Fine. I was…uh…just thinking."

Sam's eyes are questioning, but he doesn't push the issue any further and for that Dean is grateful. He doesn't want to explain to Sam how his incredible ability to cover any possible contingency when Dean was injured reminded him too clearly of the last years they spent together.

He clears his throat, swallowing the thickness that bubbled up from his chest, and moves forward to sit on the room's only armchair -one in an astonishing shade of light green.

Sam finishes with the bed, folds the comforter back into place. "Let me go grab something for you to change into." He doesn't wait for a response, simply breezes out of the room with a single mindedness that he often sunk into when Dean was injured.

He returns in a matter of seconds with a pair of worn sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt draped over one arm.

"These will probably be too long for you," he says with a snicker, tossing the offending items on the bed. "But you could always roll them up so you don't trip."

Dean rolls his eyes. Petty shots about their difference in height is not worth him getting riled up over. Especially when his leg his beginning to ache something fierce, and he feels like he hasn't slept in two weeks. He grabs the hem of his borrowed pullover, and starts to take it off before pausing mid motion.

"Dude? Some privacy?"

Sam smiles, shakes his head in an embarrassed manner, and slowly backs out of the room. "I'm going to get your prescriptions ready. I'll be downstairs."

He leaves the door open behind him; whether on purpose or simply an accident, Dean can't be sure. Confident in the fact that they are the only ones in the house, and those footsteps clumping down the stairs are indeed his younger brother's, Dean begins to change.

His injuries make it astonishingly difficult to undress and pull new clothes on. By the time he's finished, he hears the front door downstairs open and slam closed, and what sounds like a herd of gazelles go barreling into the kitchen.

Dean sighs, smoothes the wrinkles down the front of the borrowed sweatshirt. He doesn't want to go down those stairs, and not just because he feels like he suddenly aged eighty years in two days. If the childish giggles floating up the stairwell are any indications, then the first floor of this Martha Stewart-esque house harbours exactly what Dean has been running from all these years. The evidence, all clearly labeled and laid out before him, of how whatever Dean had been able to offer his brother was never enough. The life Dean tried to give Sam had never met whatever internal requirements and standards the youngest Winchester had established for himself, so he'd left to do it himself. Intellectually, Dean knows it's not that simple, that it never is, but intellect never had anything to do with his heart.

"Hi."

His head whips around, bones and cartilage popping as the discarded medical scrubs fall from his hands to the bed. A young boy stands in the doorway, with wild blond hair and hazel eyes that are vaguely familiar. He casts a suspicious glance in Dean's direction, eyes narrowing in an expression that brings melancholic pangs to Dean's heart.

"Who're you?" The kid says, crossing his arms against his chest, and though he can't be a day older than five, the posturing looks completely natural on him. If Dean ever had any doubt that this kid was Sam's, the arms crossed in front of his chest and the argumentative hitch to his hip erased it all. The Spiderman shirt with chocolate stains and the worn jeans with grass stains suggest a familial relationship to Dean himself.

"I'm Dean." He's never been good at dealing with kids, Sammy the obvious exception to the rule, and now is no different. The kid's nose wrinkles, he shakes his head and pencil straight blond locks fly about his face.

"No, you're not. I am."

And isn't this an interesting development. With a barely disguised grunt of pain, Dean bends and retrieves the scrubs from the floor. Out of the back pocket, he pulls a worn black leather wallet, the only thing he managed to keep out of sight from the many doctors and nurses he became rather reluctantly acquainted with. Inside is his driver's licence, the real one, issued in the state of Kansas with his real birthday, real name, everything real except the birth certificate that allowed him to get it. The original had burned in the fire. He holds it out to the kid. "Read that."

The kid frowns, wrinkles his nose again. "I don't know how yet."

Dean is surprised for a minute; his brother had been reading like… a person who reads too much since he was old enough to realize the strange symbols lined up next to each other on pieces of paper bound together actually held some kind of meaning. He'd taken to it like Dean never had, and it surprises him to see that wasn't passed on to his son. Presuming this is Sam's son, and not some neighbourhood schmuk with remarkably similar features trying to get in on some Winchester love.

"It says Dean Winchester. See that?" He taps his own face trapped beneath a plastic card pocket. "That's a picture of my handsome face. Means I'm Dean Winchester. Do you have one of these?"

The kid shakes his head. "No."

"Well, then. How do I know you're not lying to me?"

Barely more than a minute with this kid and Dean already has him in tears. Must be some kind of a record, surely to be broken the next time the eldest Winchester is left alone with a child under ten. But this kids mouth and chin are familiar enough, and Dean has never been able to stand seeing Sam upset.

"Relax, kid. I'm just teasing. We can both be Dean Winchester. I'm pretty sure there are more of us out there. You got a middle name?"

The kid's chest puffs out in pride. "John. Daddy says it's the name of an American hero. But he was like a secret agent so nobody knows 'bout him 'cept us."

Dean's heart clenches in his chest, even after all these years, and he turns away for a moment to hide the emotion he knows is written all over his face. Damn Sam. Nasty little trick, taking off like he did and then saddling this kid with years of therapy if he ever learns whom exactly his names refer to. As if he'd gone out of his way to pull on his older brother's heart strings, years after the fact.

"Why do we have the same name?"

Dean takes a deep breath, tramps the emotion somewhere down where it won't catch him off guard again. "I don't know, kid. I bet your father named you after me in some misplaced sense of guilt. But don't worry about it. I'm a pretty cool guy to be named after."

"How do you know my daddy?"

"He's my brother, munchkin."

Both Deans whirl around at the sudden voice in the doorway, the elder cursing himself at his own inattention. Believing to be safe in his own house, Sam has forgotten the need for stealth and walks like a giraffe wearing army boots. It's laughably easy to hear him coming, and yet Dean allowed himself to be distracted by this small child. It's an understandable mistake, but one that could cost someone their life.

Sam stands at the threshold, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed against his chest, unintentionally mimicking his son's posture from earlier. The smile on his face is nostalgic, melancholic as his gaze moves between his son and his older brother.

"Your brother?" Little Dean's tone is incredulous, his eyes wide in surprise. If Big Dean ever doubted his place in Sam's new family, the kid just cemented his concerns as spot-on. He'd always known his link to Sam's separate life was tenuous at best; after all, it had been absurdly easy for Sam to cut his brother out of his life at Stanford with only the barest of mentions. But he would never imagine that he'd be wiped out of existence like an ex-girlfriend or a high school buddy gone bad.

By a miracle of repression, he manages to keep the hurt off his face and even goes so far as to smile. "Yup. And you bet your dad perfected the annoying little brother act."

He doesn't look at Sam, but he can feel his brother's concerned gaze on him. No doubt Sam is aware of what just happened, of what Dean has learned simply by observing. He decides to cut the heart-to-heart off at the pass.

"So. Kids, huh? Didn't exactly see that coming. You got any more?"

Sam smiles softly, shakes his head. His brother makes it sound like they're nothing more than expensive ornaments, something to be taken out an admired at the opportune time. Of course, Sam knows his sibling better than that. Dean has always had an affinity for kids, whether he liked to believe it or not. As if they somehow sensed the trauma of Dean's own childhood and what he had to give up, kids generally accepted him without questions or concerns. It made quite a few jobs that much easier.

"Two more. I'll go get them; I forgot your pills on the counter."

Dean sighs. "Sam, you don't have to wait on me. I can get down the stairs, you know."

"Oh yeah?" Sam snorts sarcastic laughter. "Cause it looks like you might collapse any minute. Look, just sit down on the bed and wait for two minutes, all right? Is that so hard to ask?"

Dean rolls his eyes but doesn't otherwise respond. There's really no point in arguing with Sam, not when his brother has made up his mind, and Dean is incapable of convincing him physically. He sits gingerly on the bed, lifting his cast to stretch along the length and leaning against the headboard.

Little Dean watches with big, interested eyes. He rounds the bed at a good clip and jumps on the other side, bouncing once or twice before settling on his knees.

Dean watches him carefully, as though the kid might suddenly sprout a second head and try to devour him whole.

"What happened to you?" Little Dean asks, reaching out with a tentative hand to brush his fingers against the fiberglass cast. "Does it hurt?"

"A telephone pole jumped out in front of me when I was driving." The kid looks up in surprise, hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion before he recognizes the teasing glint in Dean's eyes, similar to that of his Dad's. He laughs lightly, his tiny fingers moving up to ghost over the bandages on Dean's hands.

"Daddy had to wear one of these once." He touches the cast on Dean's left wrist. "He fell off the ladder when he was hanging the Christmas lights. Mommy left me and Lizzie and Em over at Mrs. Parkinson's while she took Daddy to the hospital. He couldn't play football with me for a long time cause Mommy said it hurt too much, and it hadda get better."

Dean opens his mouth to tell the kid his dad always was a little too sensitive, but changes his mind at the last second. "Well, she's right, buddy. It does hurt."

Sam reappears in the doorway then. There's a baby tucked against his left hip, waving around a plush Spongebob in one hand and holding tightly to Sam's t-shirt in the other. She's giggling madly at some inside joke the others are not privy to. From behind his brother, Dean can barely make out the form of a little girl, probably no older than three, holding tightly to Sam's jeans with both hands and hiding behind him with her face pressed against the back of his thigh.

"These are the other two." Sam shuffles forward, his movement limited by the child attached to him like a limpet. He sits down at the end of the bed, near Dean's feet, and Kellie follows with a small plastic tray she sits down on the night table.

"This is Emma," Sam says, motioning to the baby sitting in his lap. "And this shy little munchkin is Lizzie." He lays a big hand on the middle child's head, tucking the blond curls out of her face. "Sweetie, this is your Uncle Dean. You don't have to be afraid of him."

"She's always been a little shy," Kellie says by way of explanation.

But Dean doesn't hear her. He's still trying to wrap his head around Uncle Dean. So much has happened in these past seven years that he feels whiplash just trying to keep up with it. The kids are all adorable, if he's going to be honest, with glimpses of both Kellie and Sam written in all of them. And he swears little Lizzie's mouth and nose is identical to features he now only remembers from photographs yellowing with age.

_Uncle Dean. _

He tastes the words in his mind, rolling them over and over again until no angle is overlooked. He decides he likes the sound of it.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry for the delay. A crapload of real life problems has a way of taking away inspiration. Hope this chapter is up to snuff. Lemme know!

* * *

Kids.

A half an hour after the fact, and Dean is still having trouble getting used to the thought of being an uncle. Even harder still is accepting the idea that his baby brother is a father.

Denial is a very tricky thing to hang onto when the very object your mind is rebelling against hasn't left your side in all the time you've known him. Mini-Dean, as the original Dean Winchester has come to think of him as, has apparently decided without consulting anyone that his newly discovered uncle is the greatest thing since the until recently defunct Metallica reunited for the greatest live tour in the history of American music. He is reclined on the bed next to said uncle, his right leg hooked over Dean's casted left one, his cheek pressed against the only part of Dean's upper body, his left shoulder, not covered in bruises or stitches or in some process of healing. Sam is sitting in the armchair he pulled closer to the bed, watching the scene with a light in his eyes that his older brother isn't going to acknowledge.

His niece, previously so terrified she couldn't even consider looking him in the eye, now sits at his feet, doodling on the bottom half of his cast with every colour and shade Crayola produces in a marker.

"Dean, you need to take your meds." Sam motions to the tray still on the night table where Kellie deposited it before heading back downstairs to start dinner. The small collection of white pills and red and yellow capsules look innocuous enough, but Dean knows better. Antibiotics are all well and good, but the painkillers, as much relief as he knows they will bring, will also put him to sleep. And he's not quite ready to give up these kids just yet. This new life he seems to have stumbled into is still too unreal; a part of him fears that if he falls asleep, he will wake to find he dreamt the whole thing.

His hazel eyes fix on Lizzie, testing the colour on her hand before leaning over to fill in a drawing that vaguely resembles a person, if he unfocuses his gaze and tilts his head just so. At his side, Mini-Dean is driving miniature race cars up and down the cast on his wrist, following the dotted yellow lines Dean himself drew there. Dean sticks his hand into the small basket filled with old Matchbox racers, sorting through Mustangs and Porches and firetrucks until his searching fingers encounter a familiar shape. He pulls out a '65 Chevy Impala, black, with movable front doors and trunk. Quirking an eyebrow, he holds the car up for Sam's inspection.

"What?" Sam says, holding his hands out and doing a remarkable job of feigning innocence. "It's a cool car, nothing to do with you."

Dean rolls his eyes, puts the car down on his cast and runs it up and down the "road" next to Mini-Dean's pick-up. "Wrong year anyway."

"Yeah, they were out of '67's." Sam shrugs, smiles sheepishly when his brother looks at him. Dean laughs, and shakes his head slowly. He would have never labelled his brother as a sentimental guy, despite his penchant for soul-baring and chick flick moments. Perhaps as a side-effect of their upbringing, Sam never had any trouble letting go of something that belonged in the past. He never had a favourite stuffed animal, or blankie, and even at a young age understood that clothes and jackets and shoes could be replaced. But the evidence Dean has seen so far suggests that maybe Sam's outlook on the matter has changed with the years.

"Would you quit laughing at me and take your pills? They have to be on schedule."

"Dude, you sound like the nurses at the hospital. Will you take it easy? A few minutes isn't going to make a lick of difference."

Sam rolls his eyes. "No, it won't. But an hour will, and you're already forty-five minutes late."

Dean rolls his eyes, nudges the kid next to him so hard he nearly tumbles off the bed. "Hey, kid. Can you tell your dad to lighten up a little? He won't listen to me."

Little Dean looks hard at his Uncle, then across the room to his dad. "I don't know, Uncle Dean. Dad's real smart. If he says you need to take your pills, you should probably take your pills. Mom puts mine in some jello; d'ya want me to ask her if we have any?"

"You know what, kiddo? I think we do. Why don't you go ask your mom to whip some up? Make sure she knows it's for your Uncle, because he's not man enough to swallow them like an adult. Would you rather lime or grape, Dean? We have both."

"Yeah, yeah. Real funny, Sammy. Get over yourself already." He holds out a hand, deadpan expression on his face. "Give me the damn pills."

Beside him, Mini-Dean gasps in righteous indignation, one hand flying to his mouth, the other poking his Uncle hard in the upper arm. "Uncle Dean! That's a bad word, you can't say that to dad. My mom says people who use those words aren't smart enough to come up with something better."

"Is that right?" Dean takes the pills Sam drops into his hand, and swallows them noisily. "Your mom sounds like a real smart lady." His tone is drier than the Sahara, and one does not need to have known him nearly their entire lives to recognize the sarcasm and disrespect inherent in his tone.

"Dean." Sam's voice is low, a warning interlaced in that one word in the way only a father can manage. And just like that, as quickly as it came on, the good mood has vanished. Sam can't even begin to imagine what hidden mental landmine either he or his son somehow skipped across, but whatever good nature was written across his older brother's face has vanished. Dean rolls his eyes again, though this time without the humour and amusement of earlier.

Sam turns from his brother and focuses on his two remaining children. "Guys, why don't you head downstairs? I bet your mom could use some help setting the table."

Like his namesake, Little Dean is more than capable of producing a good whine, but he must recognize some hidden meaning in his father's voice. He hops off the bed, takes his sister's hand in his own, and leads her from the room without a second glance. Sam waits until he can hear their footsteps moving down the stairs before he looks back to his brother. His older brother, who is staring down in his lap with such a sullen expression Sam wonders what could've possibly happened in the past few minutes.

"Something you want to tell me, big brother?"

Dean's scowl is so deep Sam wonders if it will cause permanent facial damage. "Don't start that shit up again, Sam. It's been a long time since those big doe eyes worked on me."

"I'm not even going to mention the fact that a doe is a female deer, because somehow I'm sure it was intentional."

When Dean smirks, nods his head just noticeably, it's almost like it used to be, the two brothers trading insults in a kind of verbal war, sometimes taking them hours and crossing state lines in the process. But years ago it had all been in good fun, and Sam can feel none of the comraderie of the old days. Now the words are nothing but spiteful.

Sam sighs, looks down at his hands white-knuckle gripping the armrests of the chair in which he sits. He knew before ever coming to the decision to bring Dean home that this would be far from easy. Seven years is a long time, even for two people as close as they used to be. He knows it's going to take time to get to know his brother again, to learn a whole new set of triggers and tells and the thousand other different things that tell Sam what his brother is thinking when he won't say it out loud. But damn him if Sam isn't a little frustrated it didn't happened all at once.

"Look, Dean. I know how much you hate being injured like this. And I understand it. But I need to know you're not going to fight me at every possible turn."

Dean looks like he wants to roll his eyes, or much worse, but all he manages is to hitch one shoulder up in a half-shrug. "Don't worry, Sammy. You don't have to worry about upsetting the delicate balance of your family. Would you mind closing the door on your way out? The painkillers are starting to kick in, and I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open."

Sam sighs. He should have known any attempt at serious conversation with his brother would be shot down. It's a rookie mistake made when dealing with Dean, and he was a fool to try and enter into it without some kind of plan. Next time he won't be so unprepared.

He rises from the armchair, watches for a minute as Dean struggles to turn over and show his back, before shutting off the light and closing the door behind him.

Down in the kitchen, Kellie moves from one side of the room to the other, dodging kids, dog and all manner of associated paraphenilia, carrying stacks of dishes, stirring soup, and checking the pot roast cooking in the oven. She's stubbornly refusing to think about this sudden addition to her husband's distanced family, simply because she has no idea what to think. This brother, who to her didn't exist until a few hours ago, seems to be the exact of opposite of Sam in every conceivable way. They don't even look all that similar. But any doubt she might've had evaporated the moment she witnessed the brotherly banter they passed back and forth, on the driveway, and then later in the kitchen. Having grown up with two brothers, one older and one younger, Kellie finds it impossible to mistake that exchange for anything else.

Of course, on the other hand, she can't imagine simply cutting her brothers out of her life. They are as much a part of her as Sam, or the children are. And knowing her husband as well as she does, she has to wonder what could have possibly happened between them to make Sam act as though his older brother never existed.

But all this is a moot point, anyway, because Kellie is stubbornly refusing to think about it.

She hears footsteps moving down the hallway, and greets Sam with a smile as he enters the kitchen. "Dean's not joining us?"

Sam makes a face. "Uh, no. His pills made him sleepy."

Kellie senses there's more to the story, but doesn't push. She watches with a smile as Sam lifts Emma out of her highchair, and plants a noisy kiss on her cheek.

"I made some soup for him," -she motions to the pot of soup simmering on the stove- "but I guess I can just put in the fridge until he wakes up."

He's tense; she can see it in the set of his shoulders, and the downward droop at the corners of his mouth. But nonetheless, he crosses the room in two easy strides, kisses her deeply and squishes the baby between them when he pulls her in for a tight hug.

"I love you so much," he whispers fiercely, kissing her behind the ear before releasing her just as suddenly as he embraced her and replacing Emma in her highchair.

Pleased by the display despite her worry, she rubs the goosebumps from her arms. "Sam, honey, it's just soup. Are you all right?"

He leans against the counter, crossing his arms against his chest and his feet at the ankles. The smile he gives her is a shadow of its capability, a little self-deprecating, and does nothing to assuage her concern. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

She would like to push the issue a little further, but Dean Jr. and Lizzie choose that moment to come breezing into the kitchen, Moose following closely on their heels, to inquire about the state of dinner. Kellie decides to let it go for the time being, because knowing from experience, it will be quite some time before they have another chance to be alone.

* * *

It takes Dean a fair amount of time to become aware of his consciousness. Earlier, he might've used the pills as an excuse to avoid a heart-to-heart with Sam, but there is no denying the effect they ultimately have on him. He feels groggy and slow-witted, like he's been asleep for the past three days. And if the pressure he feels on his bladder is anything to go by, that might just be the case.

He opens one eye, blearily looking around the room for his crutches. It's dark out; the curtains are still open and from Dean's position on the bed, he can see stars lighting up the night sky. He wonders briefly what time it is, before ultimately deciding it doesn't matter because it's not like he has any place to be.

Sitting up is undeniably hard; stitches and bruised ribs pull and push on each other until his eyes are watering with the effort. But in the end, it's worth it because he hasn't been this close to wetting himself since he was four years old, holding his baby brother in his arms with the dew of grass wet beneath his feet. He grabs his crutches and levers himself to his feet.

The hallway outside the guest room (_not his room, he has to remember that_) is dark, and he is unfamiliar enough with the house that the going is slow. The first couple of doors that are propped open turn out to be the kids room, but the third one's a charm and he makes sure the door is shut behind him before turning on the light.

He looks like hell. There really is no getting around it, and since he'd rather not be confronted with evidence of the fact, he carefully avoids looking in the mirror to his left while he empties his bladder and washes his hands. Then it's back down the darkened hallway, barely lit by the 101 Dalmations nightlight and back to his room (_the guest room, he can't let himself get comfortable). _

With the door safely shut behind him, he leans the crutches against the wall and hops back towards the bed. The idea of going back to sleep is a dismal one, but he isn't left with that many options. There is no tv in the room, no stereo or even clock radio. He might be able to find a book if he looked hard enough, but the idea of reading isn't that much more appealing than more sleep, and as such, isn't worth the effort. One thing the room does have, however, is a bowl of soup, sitting on a wooden tray placed on the bedside table. He turns on a lamp to get a closer look, and sees that not only is there soup, there is also crackers, a small bottle of orange juice, and a couple of aspirin sitting atop a paper napkin. Underneath the juice there's a piece of paper, folded once with his name written in precise script across the top. He pulls it out, unfolds it, and holds it under the light to better see it.

"_Hope you like vegetable soup, it's all I could find in the cupboard. There's some aspirin too, the warning on your painkillers said not exceed the maximum dose, but aspirin or tylenol is okay in the meantime. Hope you can join us for breakfast. The kids are looking forward to getting to know their Uncle._

_-Kellie"_

The soup's been cold a long time, a skin has already settled over the surface. And the condensation pooling under the juice has warped Kellie's handwriting, making the paper stiff and still damp in some places. But Dean doesn't care. It had been a long time, years, since someone has gone out of their way to make sure he was all right. The realization that someone not related by blood cares hits harder than he ever thought it would. He tries to reread the note, but his vision has gone blurry and it's too difficult.

He sets the note back down on the table, and lowers himself slowly to his pillow. He doesn't want to think, doesn't want to admit to the fact that maybe after all this time, he might deserve to have someone care about him. The thought is too painful, and he strikes it from his mind. Much better to think of himself as a lone wolf, one with no attachments and no dependents. Besides, that's what he'll be as soon as this damn leg heals and he can get moving again. Why prolong the inevitable?


End file.
